


Aberforth Dumbledore and the question of proper nourishment

by mayachain



Series: Tom Dumbledore(?) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 20th Century, Aberforth's century-long grudge, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Drabble Sequence, Dysfunctional Family, First half, Gen, War with Grindelwald, Wizarding World (Harry Potter), Wool's Orphanage (Harry Potter), house-elves are awesome, in memory of Ariana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22021957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayachain/pseuds/mayachain
Summary: Aberforth did not go to the ceremony where Albus received his Order of Merlin. He was busy feeding young Tom Riddle and saving the future of Wizarding Britain.
Relationships: Aberforth Dumbledore & Albus Dumbledore, Aberforth Dumbledore & Tom Riddle
Series: Tom Dumbledore(?) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585882
Comments: 5
Kudos: 62





	Aberforth Dumbledore and the question of proper nourishment

** Aberforth Dumbledore and the question of proper nourishment **

I.

It was not widely known. It was, in fact, a closely held secret, but it was the truth nonetheless: the head of the Dumbledore family was Aberforth. After Ariana… _after_ , it had become hauntingly evident that Albus could not be in charge, and so the document had been composed and magically sealed.

Royalties to ground-breaking discoveries, monies from innovations, rewards in gold, artefacts, gems… Whatever Albus earned, no matter how, was Aberforth’s to do with as he pleased.

The elder was allowed a large stipend to keep up his image. The bulk… the bulk Aberforth put to his own uses.

II.

Four-year-old Tom was in tears and trying not to be. His hands were sore, his bum hurt, Mrs. Cole had confined him to the dorm. He had not eaten since breakfast. How could he sneak – 

_Plop_. A small weight disturbed the threadbare blanket he was huddled under, and _something_ smelled divine.

Tom blinked, and blinked again. The bowl of stew did not disappear.

Halfway convinced it was a dream, Tom wolfed down the food. Once everything was gone, just before the cutlery disappeared with another soft _plop_ , he made out the lettering at the bottom of the bowl: _Hog’s Head_.

III.

In the beginning there had been very little that they had owned. Father in prison, mother at home, two boys to send to Hogwarts and the damage Ariana’s magic wrought that couldn’t always be fixed with a wand… Then came Mother’s death and Ariana’s, blood money from the sale of a house neither could stand to live in…

But Albus was clever, too clever by far, and soon people forgot his origins and were vying to teach and collaborate with him. He met Nicholas Flamel and his star was rising.

Aberforth set up his pub in Hogsmeade and was content.

IV.

Tom knew that there was something special about him. Mrs. Cole was convinced it was the devil’s work, but Tom refused to believe that hag.

Strange things happened around him. Sometimes, he could _make_ things happen. 

No one here knew he could do such a thing. No one he knew could talk to snakes. No one but Tom – that’s how he knew he was better than all the other children.

And someone out there knew. Someone out there knew Tom was special, and sent him food. Kept sending food to him and only him.

Someone out there was his friend.

V.

For the longest time, nothing happened. Albus was steadily gaining fame and Aberforth’s rustic but apparently run-down Hog’s Head gave no sign of the mounds of gold accumulating in his vault.

Until the Great Slump rolled over the Muggle world and one Saturday Aberforth encountered a student who looked worse than Ariana had that year Mother had been too sick to go to the market too often. Thin. Gaunt.

Albus had started to teach at Hogwarts. Aberforth thought long and hard before he went into the castle to visit. On his way out, he took a detour to the kitchen.

VI.

None of the urchins at Wool’s knew _what_ was so different about Riddle, but everyone knew that if you shoved Tom, mocked him, ratted him out, you were in for a bad fate. Even the adults had a vague and fear-filled understanding of this state of things. But there was something else.

Something else. 

A secret no one dared spread aloud: If you were good at something – anything – if you were quick, and thrifty, and not Mrs. Cole’s pet, then sometimes half a scone or a piece of fruit would appear in your grasp with no sign of its origins.

VII.

No one knew where all magical children lived. No being in all magical Britain – but there was a book that tracked every single magical child born.

Consulting it before their tenth birthday was just not done. In fact, for the average – even the exceptional – wizard or witch it was simply impossible.

House-elves were neither wizards nor witches, nor were they average. Hogwarts elves especially were, indeed, very special.

They would never have complied with Aberforth’s request for any other purpose. But for this… For this they would form a schedule and check up on every child in that book unseen.

VIII.

The man who came to see Tom at the orphanage was not his friend. The man’s presence was further proof of the specialness of the gifts Tom had been born with, but the man himself took one look at Tom and listened to Mrs. Cole.

An opinion was formed, words were uttered far too hastily. A mental probe did not probe deeply enough. A wardrobe burned, treasures vanished.

Treasures were lost, but plates vanished regularly. They always returned anew, whenever there had been too little for any orphan to be sated or when Tom was being punished unjustly. 

Tom belonged. 

IX.

Fifty-two. Fifty-two children identified and marked for observation. About half were wandless chits still, while the other half had already started school.

Twenty-nine muggleborn. There were muggles that were very poor indeed and muggles in general could not be expected to know what all magic – healthy magic – demanded. 

Fourteen halfbloods. A shame and a puzzle. While mixed unions often made it hard for the magical parent to keep a well-paid job, every witch or wizard ought to have gained enough knowledge to grow their own food.

Seven purebloods. Rich purebloods, with only one exception. Aberforth wanted to storm their manors. 

X.

Hogwarts, the letter said. School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Not satanic worship, not devilry. _Wizardry_ , gifts popping up in the British population often enough to warrant a school. Perfectly normal.

Extraordinary.

Hogwarts, Tom read, returning to the letterhead again and again as he poured over the book list. 

A place to learn. A place to grow better at what he could already do, to grow proficient at things as yet outside Tom’s imagination. A place filled with other magical people – children better than his fellow orphans, children gifted – never as much as – Tom.

Hogwarts, he read. Hog’s Warts. Hog’s Head?

XI.

Just what had possessed Albus to become a teacher Aberforth would never know. It was safer than other choices, from a certain viewpoint, but from another – not.

Aberforth had little to no opinion on Albus’ skill at departing knowledge, but he remembered young Al failing to explain _Wingardium Leviosa_ and storming away in a huff. Foiled in his search for a fellow genius and endlessly impatient.

Flamel’s star apprentice doubtlessly had a lot to teach. But nothing he had seen led Aberforth to believe Albus would look at a child or a young adult and see an actual human being.

XII.

Tom was not so extraordinary.

Oh, he was a very good student and he was inherently powerful, that much was true. He could learn anything the teachers threw at him and anything he put his mind to. 

No one had heard of a wizard called Riddle. 

Well, he’d always known that he would have to fight for every sliver of respect from the world. He, Tom, had within himself without parents everything he could ever want.

In the Great Hall the dishes appeared before hungry students’ eyes just as they used to appear on his bed in the orphanage dorm.

XIII.

Aberforth lived his life while the light of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian soared. People said it was only a matter of time before one of his feats earned the bright man an Order of Merlin. 

Dumbledore the younger would not go to the ceremony if that day ever came.

The Hog’s Head had a mixed reputation but it was well frequented. Its innkeeper refused to say a word when the first rumours about Gellert’s movements trickled in. He never commented on anything that happened on the continent. If he came across his older brother, Aberforth refused to look at him.

XIV.

Young Mr. Riddle thought it a crime that he had to be near fourteen years old before ever setting foot in a Wizarding village. He’d been to Diagon Alley by himself numerous times, by what right had Dippet kept him from this place?

He was here, finally. He’d ditched his Slytherin acquaintances and wandered around wherever his feet took him.

He bought a few necessities and two books that somehow could not be found in the library and then he _breathed_ and found his bravery – retaining his caution – and marched towards the building he’d wanted to search out in forever.

XV.

Aberforth liked the small flat above the pub. It had a bedroom, a small kitchen, a narrow office, an even smaller sitting room doubling as a library, a bathroom, and an attic.

Most people would assume that Aberforth slept in the small bedroom and that he would send his intermittent charges upstairs, but no, the truth was, he favoured the attic. He was by now quite capable of extending the space with magic if fancy struck. 

There was only one bedroom; there were, so far, five doors. A place to belong for every child who had ever spent the night. 

XVI.

“Hello,” ventured Tom, a little put off by how like Dumbledore the man behind the bar looked. The hair was darker, the look in what a less observant wizard might take for identical-to-Dumbledore’s eyes – 

“Hello yourself,” came the answer. The voice was gruff but not dismissive, far from friendly-sounding, but at the same time: not false.

“Is it you what sends the dishes,” asked Tom. As soon as he’d said it he wanted to sink through the floor, but there was nothing to do but stand his ground.

The man behind the bar put down his towel.

“Aye,” he said. 

XVII.

It happened every few years, or maybe that was an exaggeration. It had only happened twice so far… It certainly _seemed_ as if it happened every few years.

A child the elves observed was found to be in a situation it absolutely should not remain in. There was little Aberforth could do apart from what he and the elves were already doing with meals and healing potions.

Even once the child came to Hogwarts, Aberforth’s hands were bound. But once a third-year found their way into Hogsmeade and through the Hog’s Head’s door… Aberforth could certainly spring into action _then_. 

XVIII.

It was not proper, going into the Hog’s Head. No, slipping away from the other Slytherins to enter the dingy bar was not at all proper comportment for an upstanding Slytherin.

Never mind that the liquor that some upper years brought into the common room could reasonably only have one origin.

The good thing about this was that as long as he accompanied the others to one or two shops, Tom could go there during Hogsmeade visits as often as he pleased. There was no one who would admit to having been there to see Tom inside, in any case.

XIX.

Infrequently, a child would spend a fortnight. Hannah. Fedoric and his siblings. Quentinus “please call me Quinn”.

Martin was nine when the Hog’s Head’s food programme began, and twelve when his plight during winter break made the house-elves cry. He was thirteen when he stumbled through Aberforth’s door, wrapped into Abe’s father’s old winter coat.

Elvira had long received Hog’s Head dishes every two days. She was sixteen when her one remaining elderly aunt died and left her in even more dire straits. 

Martin stayed with Aberforth for three years. Elvira stayed for Easter break and one long, memorable summer. 

XX.

They were bombing London.

Tom had hoped it a one-time thing: German planes crossing the Channel last August – a fluke. It was happening again and again and again.

Tom had nowhere to go. He could stay at Hogwarts over Christmas just as he’d been doing every year before now, but if the attacks were still ongoing when school let out, he’d be right in the thick of it come June.

Mrs. Cole had taken the whole orphanage to see where the bombs had fallen. He’d been scared then. Thinking of it now, he was damn near desperate enough to pray.

XXI.

“That one, really,” Albus’ eyes said, for all that they twinkled merrily, for all that he seemed affable.

“This one, yes,” Aberforth did not say. “He chose me, as was probable. I chose him, if given the choice, and those like him, long ago.”

“He is not a good boy, _far_ from it,” a twitch of Albus’ beard said, eyes grave.

“He is a much better person than you were at thirteen, than you _are_ ,” said the line of Abe’s back, the tilt of his chin, the tweak of his brow.

But then, such a feat was not exactly difficult.

XXII.

The wizards were only concerned about the crimes of that fellow Grindelwald. They had no idea that it was the Muggles who were the real threat here.

Tom had nowhere to go. Headmaster Dippet had already said that he could not stay at Hogwarts. And he could not, absolutely could not ask one of his classmates to take him in, like he maybe could have if Tom Riddle were related to capital-S someones. Like maybe he could have if Tom Riddle had met actual friends.

Perfect grades made him no less an orphan. He could not afford to show weakness.

XXIII.

Elvira would soon be a certified mediwitch, highly sought-after at St. Mungo’s. Albus had expressed surprise at the girl’s career choice; Aberforth had never put much stock in her grades.

Martin had established himself as a researcher and was currently based in Northern Ireland, where he’d found a home roaming hidden libraries and making friends with his first apprentice: Irma Pince.

The others, too – every child who still needed the elves upon graduation received a scholarship. Wizards and witches all over Britain wondered where it came from. The graduates who had figured out Aberforth’s hand in their fortune remained silent.

XXIV.

“Will you stay here, then?” Aberforth asked. Tom stared, and stared, the words ringing in his head, but – he must have misheard. 

“Deserve to be safe,” the man grumbled, half turned away. Tom didn’t think he could have borne it had the man tried to gentle his voice.

The turn was not a rejection. Tom could see right through the bait.

Tom thought of endless meals that always appeared no matter what he did and never judged him. He thought of the man’s brother, and of smoke and fire and explosions, and of being welcome.

“Yes, please,” breathed Tom Riddle.

XXV.

Albus went to the continent and sought a duel with Grindelwald. He defeated him, ensured he had a trial, was a vital force in the movement that saw a monster imprisoned in Numengard.

Aberforth’s brother was a hero. Aberforth’s brother had stopped the Dark Lord when no one else could. Aberforth’s brother was the saviour of the world.

It was a week after Albus’ return to Britain that Aberforth saw him. It was an hour later still that their eyes met. It was a relief, admittedly, that Albus understood: this changed nothing. 

Albus had stopped Gellert.

Too little, too late.

XXVI.

Tom had always wanted to be special. He’d always been better than all the other kids he knew, even if only in his own mind, even if the adults around him had never seen it.

Of course he had indulged in the same fantasy that all orphans do, that some relative would find him and give him a home and make him, Tom, the centre of their world.

Never in any of Tom’s fantasies had there been room for other children. If someone took him in he ought to outshine and instantly replace the dregs, should the relatives have them. 

XXVII.

There were many excuses, every one glib and shiny and rock solid, most of them centred around a deputy headmaster’s responsibilities. All believable. All understandable. All true.

There were murmurs that Albus might be made Chief Warlock; by all rights, to be voted into the position he would have to sit a given number of session in his Wizengamot seat by his own darned self, and yet he did not.

No. It was Aberforth, odd grizzly Aberforth who had The Slayer of Grindelwald’s complete trust and who voted exactly as his smarter, more glamorous, wonderful older brother demanded of him. 

XVIII.

“You can take my name, if you want,” Aberforth said. “I’ve not much use for it. Have to share it with my brother, but if you want it, it’s yours.”

“Means you’ll lose that name you have, Riddle, though. Means you’ll lose any claim you might have to another family, too. Me, I’ll claim you all the same, Riddle, Dumbledore, Gaunt, what have you. Offer’s open, and so’s standing by you when you make your own way.”

Tom knew that Aberforth meant it: the name would make no difference. He himself could hardly comprehend it, but nonetheless it was true.

XXIX.

The Dumbledore representative cast votes. The Dumbledore seat’s votes spurred on numerous minor changes rippling through Wizarding Britain.

There was no room for Albus in Aberforth’s house: If need be, he would have to contend with a bench in a corner of the pub. There was only Aberforths attic which held their mother’s old, shabby vanity, which in turn in its second-to-last drawer held Albus’ rarely worn medals. 

The brothers’ arrangement would stay thus even if Aberforth one day were to find himself responsible for more than one child at a time and would see himself, reluctantly, forced to expand. 

XXX.

Tom _was_ special, in old Aberforth’s eyes. Special enough to be fostered, special enough to be offered the name. Special enough to be the official heir, unless Tom’s own blood family turned out more advantageous to him.

But it was not so bad, Tom found against all his expectations, to be acquainted with the young wizard and witch Aberforth had fostered before his time.

Both of them had been issued the same offer. Neither one had yet taken the name. If Tom said yes, he would be the eldest in that sense and, for the time being, Abe’s only son. 

XXXI.

Forty years was rather a long time to hold a grudge. Twenty years was. Fifty years was.

Why had not Aberforth gotten over his bitterness after all the amends Albus had made? Did he not appreciate the good Albus had done for the world? Had not Aberforth taken enough from the man, demanded too much, demanded everything?

Would it not be enough, if fifteen more years passed? If Aberforth turned one hundred, would that be enough?

That’s what it meant, though. Ten years, fifty years, two-hundred and twenty-nine.

That’s what it meant when a deed someone had done was unforgivable.

_The End?_


End file.
